


Vultures, Sweets, and Retirement

by teahigh (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baking, M/M, Retirement, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/teahigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Sherlock holds the case out at arm’s length, admiring the skull. “One of those <i>proper relationship</i> things, with an ‘aggressively monogamous’ partner. Think you’re up for it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vulture

**Author's Note:**

> Three separate fics from a Tumblr give-away I did a long while ago. Unbeta'd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the give-away fics, and this one is for **wearitcounts** , who won 3rd place (250 words.) They gave me a few ideas to work with, and I went with: “the moment they finally *get it* that they are in…whatever it is that they are in” and a tiny bit of subtly possessive Sherlock.

It’s on a whim that John enters the shop at all. He’s looked at the shop’s sign nearly every day for two years, and never once stepped inside it. So on his lunch break, he walks across the street and steps inside, and is immediately assaulted with bright colours and the overpowering scent of incense. 

He finds it hanging on the wall in the back. He reads the little card stapled to the wall next to it, and something hidden away in the words causes his chest to tighten. With one look it says everything he needs to, everything he can’t, and it’s so perfectly _Sherlock_ that it’s almost painful. 

John waves the shop owner over. 

“How much for that?” he asks. 

The woman smiles, her eyes twinkling like she knows something he doesn’t.

▪ ▪ ▪

They never talked about sleeping together. It just sort of happened, and John went along with it. Sherlock had his own desires, his own strange, funny sort of need for human contact, for physicality, and John didn’t question it. He still dated women, went home with them, and tried to ignore the way Sherlock looked at him the next morning, the way that look made him feel.

If Sherlock slept with other people, he kept his tracks well-hidden. There were no unusual marks on his neck, no smudges of make-up on his collar, no hand-shaped bruises on his hips. He smelt like his own shampoo and laundry detergent, his own skin, the occasional cigarette or cinnamon biscuit. 

John would leave, then come home again, and Sherlock never once said anything.

▪ ▪ ▪

“You’re still sleeping with other people?” Harry asked over dinner one night. “John—”

“He doesn’t care,” John stabbed his chicken harder than necessary. 

Harry snorted. “Right. And that’s why he left teeth marks on the back of your neck. Because _he doesn’t care_.” 

John turned his coat collar up around his ears. 

“Just eat your fucking steak,” he said.

▪ ▪ ▪

Sherlock didn’t care.

He didn’t. 

John told himself this, again and again. Sherlock didn’t care. This wasn’t anything – this didn’t _mean_ anything. It was just sex, just letting off steam, celebrating a case closed. It had nothing to do with emotions, or affection. 

John rubbed the back of his neck. He felt the bruise.

▪ ▪ ▪

“Very romantic,” the woman had said as she wrapped the gift in black tissue paper. “Very dangerous.”

John handed her the money. 

“Keep the change,” he said.

▪ ▪ ▪

It stays tucked away in his pocket, where John can ignore it and pretend he doesn’t know what it means.

Sherlock does experiments with ice in the living room, his hands wrapped around a glass bowl. Later, when he touches John in the fading light, the dim glow from the television, his fingers feel frozen, leaving goosebumps where they land.

▪ ▪ ▪

They wrap up their next case a week later.

John showers and shaves. Sherlock showers next, and John orders take-away. He sits at the kitchen table as he waits. The paper bag from the shop rests on the table in front of him, still closed. John stares at it. 

The bathroom door opens and Sherlock steps out, toweling his hair. John hears him pause in the hallway, then the creak of floorboards when he walks closer, entering the kitchen. 

“You’re still here,” Sherlock says. 

John clears his throat. “Well, yeah. I live here.” 

“No, I mean…” Sherlock looks away, avoiding his eye. John’s chest tightens. 

“Here,” he says. He nudges the paper bag closer to Sherlock. “This is for you.” 

Sherlock stops drying his hair. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

John smiles. “What’s it look like?” 

“A bag,” Sherlock says. 

“It’s a present, idiot,” John says. 

Sherlock drapes his towel over the back of the closest chair, pulling it out to plunk down onto it. He picks up the paper bag and inspects it, tilting it over in his hands, curious. 

John nods. “Go on and open it.” 

Sherlock glances at him. 

“Whatever it is, it’s small. Not too heavy. Breakable – glass? Judging by the tissue paper, the bag, and the overwhelming stench of incense, you got it from one of those hippie novel–” 

“Just shut up and open it,” John laughs. 

Sherlock sighs and opens the bag, pushing the black tissue paper aside. He reaches in and digs around, then pulls his hand out. 

John brings his chair closer. “I’m sure you already know what it is, but just in case you don’t, the info card is at the bottom of the bag.” 

“No, it’s – it’s fine,” Sherlock says, staring at it. He brings it closer to his face, holding it so the glass doesn’t reflect the kitchen light. The skull almost glows against the black velvet inside the glass casing. 

Sherlock swallows. John nibbles his bottom lip. 

“Black vulture,” Sherlock says, finally. “They’re incredibly careful when choosing their partners, but they mate for life.” 

“Yeah,” John agrees. “Well, the card says ‘aggressively monogamous’. I thought that was kind of funny. And, um. Fitting, I guess.” 

Sherlock looks at him. 

“I’m trying to apologize, all right?” John asks. “For being a tit.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” Sherlock says. 

“I should have paid more attention,” John says. 

Sherlock smiles. 

“You see, but you do not—” 

“Oh, shut up,” John laughs. 

“So,” Sherlock holds the case out at arm’s length, admiring the skull. “One of those _proper relationship_ things, with an ‘aggressively monogamous’ partner. Think you’re up for it?” 

John leans in and kisses him. “I think I can handle it.”


	2. Sweet Tooth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic for **lostbetweenthenotes** , who won second place (500 words) and said, “Sherlock/John… If you have anything rattling around in your head when you wrote “magical realism-type stuff” I’d love to read it. Or something with food, dessert or breakfast? (I LOVE FOOD.)” So I tried to go magical realism-type, with food!

Sherlock sets a plate of yellow mush down in front of John, grinning widely. 

John stares at it. 

“Uh,” he says. 

The grin falls off Sherlock’s face. 

John pokes at his plate with his fork. “When you said you were cooking dinner, I thought you meant, you know. Food.” 

“It is food,” Sherlock says. 

“Are you sure about that?” John asks, tilting his head. It could resemble food. It sort of smells like food. Spicy, yet almost sweet, like cinnamon. There are little round things he can’t identify, and there might be some chopped up carrots in there, somewhere. Mostly, it’s just… slop. 

“It’s… vegetarian,” Sherlock says. John looks up at him. 

“Since when are you a vegetarian?” 

“I’m not,” Sherlock snaps, as though being a vegetarian is a terrible dishonour to the entire Holmes bloodline. John looks down at his plate again. 

“I guess I can… try it.” 

John piles a bit of the yellow slop onto his fork and brings it up to his mouth. Sherlock watches him. John dumps the… whatever it is, into his mouth and chews. It _is_ spicy, and something small and sweet bursts between his teeth, and there most certainly are carrots in here. 

“Actually,” John chews thoughtfully. “It’s not bad.” 

Sherlock lets out a breath. 

“You should cook more often,” John says. 

Sherlock grins. “I plan on it.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Sherlock cooks, and toasts, and bakes, and marinates, and grills, and only accidentally sets fire to himself once. He’s up before John in the morning, making omelets and crepes, and sausages and fresh coffee, and John rises out of bed, practically floating down the stairs and into the kitchen on the smells alone.

“I’m going to get fat if I eat all of this,” John says when Sherlock dumps custard onto his crepe and dishes out chopped up strawberries and bananas. He tops it off with a whipped cream swirl, sucking the extra cream off his hand. John doesn’t even like whipped cream, but watching Sherlock lick it out from between his own fingers, he suddenly craves it. 

“We’ll just have to find something for you to do to burn off the calories, then,” Sherlock says, voice deep and mischievous grin in place. John has a few ideas already, and they all involve more whipped cream and Sherlock in significantly less clothing. 

John frowns. That thought came out of nowhere. He shakes the image from his head and tucks in to his rather extravagant breakfast. The fruit is fresh, definitely not from the shop. Sherlock must have gone to the market. 

“Cappuccino!” Sherlock claps suddenly, then he’s out of his chair and fiddling with the coffee machine. 

“That doesn’t make cappuccinos,” John points to the coffee machine with his fork. 

“I made a few adjustments,” Sherlock says. John swears he can see him jamming a knife into something in the back of the machine. 

“Just don’t electrocute yourself,” John says. “I’m not going to help you until I’m done eating.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Sherlock continues to cook, and John continues to eat, and becomes less and less disturbed at how Sherlock watches him the entire time.

Each new meal is better than the last, and every time Sherlock flashes him a grin, something warm and fuzzy-liquidy settles in John’s stomach, something tickles the inside of his chest and makes him feel like he’s a fourteen year-old with a crush. 

John burns off the calories by chasing after criminals and jumping across buildings, and each time Sherlock laughs, light and airy, John has to resist the urge to pin him against the wall and kiss him. 

He wonders if Sherlock tastes more like whipped cream, or cappuccinos.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Mycroft takes one look at the kitchen and says, “Oh dear.”

Sherlock is out – possibly buying more food – and that morning Mycroft had requested a private meeting with John as soon as possible. Either Mycroft has perfect ‘Sherlock has left the cuckoo’s nest’ instincts, or he really is surveying their flat twenty-four seven. John isn’t sure which is better. 

“Er, hi,” he says. “Would you like a… um. Cappuccino?” 

Mycroft looks at him. 

“I’d offer you a coffee but Sherlock did… something… to the machine.” 

“You must not let him continue, John” Mycroft says. 

“Er,” John shifts from foot to foot. “Okay?” 

“Tell me, has he made you a crumble yet?” Mycroft asks. 

“I think he might be getting the apples now,” John says. 

Mycroft closes his eyes. “Oh dear. This is worse than I thought.” 

John scratches the back of his head and says nothing. He’s stopped trying to understand the Holmes family; he’d probably be further off trying to learn Latin, or cure cancer, or find the lost city of Atlantis using nothing but scuba-diving gear and a row boat – and John is a terrible swimmer. 

“Don’t let him bake the crumble, John,” Mycroft says. 

“I kind of like crumble, though.” 

“No,” Mycroft says. 

All right, he hates crumble. Fine. Whatever, you say, Mycroft Holmes. 

“You just need to find some way of stopping him,” Mycroft says. “Quickly, before he moves on to the cheesecake.” 

John doesn’t even pretend he understands what that means. 

“He must not make the cheesecake, John,” Mycroft says. 

“Yeah, all right.” 

“The last time he made someone a cheesecake, they wound up in a coma,” Mycroft explains. 

John swallows. 

Mycroft sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

It makes sense, John supposes. In a weird, Sherlock Holmes sort of way.

John sits at the kitchen table and waits. He drinks from a glass of water – Mycroft’s suggestion, to “flush out the toxins” – and watches the second hand on the clock tick away.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

“I bought fresh apples!” Sherlock holds up the bag proudly.

John licks his lips. The apples look good, and they can only be better when made into cru – no, no. He told Mycroft he would put a stop to this. He promised him. And John might not particularly like Mycroft, but he likes Sherlock, and he definitely likes not being comatose. 

“Sit down,” John pushes out the chair across the table with his foot. Sherlock lowers the bag of apples. 

“You don’t like crumble?” he asks. 

“No, I do,” John says. He shakes his head. “That’s not the – just sit down.” 

Sherlock sits, looking dejected. 

“Sherlock,” John says gently. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. 

“Have you been… are you seducing me with food?” John asks. 

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. 

“I’m not angry,” John assures him. “It’s um. Well, it’s flattering, really. But, um. You could have just, you know. Taken me out for dinner and a film and groped me in the back seat of a cab on the way home. I would have gotten the hint.” 

Sherlock glares at him. “I’m not a plebeian.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Whipping up a magical love-potion apple crumble isn’t exactly civilized, Sherlock.” 

“That recipe has been in my family for centuries!” Sherlock snaps. “Or a couple of years. I forget which.” 

“Sherlock—” 

“Perhaps it was the ginger biscuits.” 

“Sherlock!” John snaps. Sherlock looks at him. 

“I’m saying, you don’t need to love-potion me in order to get into my trousers,” John says. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Right.” 

“So, are you going to stop making food?” John asks. 

“What about the apples?” 

“Give them to Mrs Hudson,” John says. 

Sherlock looks at them sadly, but rises from his chair, bag of apples in hand. He heads for the door. John follows, reaching out to stop him before he can leave. 

“And Sherlock,” John says. Sherlock turns around, breath catching when John pushes him against the closed door, his eyes widening and grip tightening on the bag of apples. He swallows as John leans close. 

“If you ever mess up the coffee machine again,” John murmurs. “I will _end you_.”


	3. Sussex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the last of the give-away fic, this one for **justonemoremiraclesherlock** , who won first place (1000 words) and asked for: “a hurt/comfort fic… in which Sherlock and John have been married for a few years, and John feels like Sherlock is starting to get bored with the monotony and/or of him.”

It was Sherlock who proposed. 

They were in the lab, testing blood samples, when Sherlock looked up from his microscope. 

“Find something?” John had asked. 

“No,” Sherlock said. “I was just thinking.” 

“About?” John asked. 

“Us,” Sherlock said. 

Molly cleared her throat, flashed John a smile, and took that as her queue to exit. John watched her go, confused, and Sherlock leaned back away from the microscope. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small cardboard box, which he held out to John. 

“I’m supposed to give you this,” he said. 

John frowned at it. “What is ‘this’?” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said. 

John sighed and took the box. He opened it and felt his breath catch in his throat. The ring was a simple gold band. John took it out and held it up to the light, inspecting the engraving on the inside. 

“This is… are these chemical compounds?” John said. “How the _hell_ did you manage that?” 

“I found a specialist,” Sherlock said. “In America. I mailed it to them.” 

John blinked at him. “Jesus.” 

“So will you?” Sherlock asked. 

“What?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly. “Marry me.” 

John grinned and shook his head. 

“Of course I’ll fucking marry you.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

The first two years, it’s as though nothing has changed.

The third and fourth years, things start to slow down. John takes a job at the clinic, Sherlock becomes even pickier with the cases he chooses. He builds his lab in the basement of 221, they nearly die three times, John is kidnapped once, and Sherlock breaks an arm one year, and his foot the next. 

By the sixth year, things are almost what John would consider “normal”. 

And that’s when it starts.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

“Are you going to eat that?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John taps his foot under the table. Sherlock hums and looks away from the window. John gestures to the slice of chocolate cake on Sherlock’s plate. Only one chunk off the edge is missing. 

“No,” Sherlock says. He slides the plate across the table. 

John sighs. “We’ll take it home then.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Sherlock is gone for the better part of his days, shut away in his lab downstairs, or in the morgue, or just _gone_ , where, John doesn’t know. When he is home, he’s lost somewhere in his head, or busy on his laptop, which he closes firmly whenever John comes close.

“It’s a project,” Sherlock says whenever John asks him about it. 

At first John found it nice, having the flat to himself, knowing Sherlock would be home again at some point during the evening, smelling of chemicals, his hands stained. Or tired but relaxed, a bag of take-away in his hand, dropping a kiss to the top of John’s head. 

Now the flat is too quiet. The clock in the living room ticks, too loud, and there’s the occasional creak, but there’s a sort of emptiness that John hasn’t felt since Sherlock died. The only difference now is that John knows Sherlock will come back home at the end of the day. 

He hopes.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Sherlock comes home half past two in the morning, smelling faintly of dust and cigarette smoke. He pulls off his clothing and dumps them into the dirty laundry. John stares at the wall, his back turned. Sherlock pulls down the covers and slides in next to him, shifting to get comfortable.

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wrap his arm around his middle and nuzzle his nose into the back of his neck. He just sighs, then, eventually, falls asleep. 

John closes his eyes.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

“Are you bored?” John asks over breakfast.

“With what?” Sherlock asks from behind his newspaper. 

John digs into his grapefruit. 

“Us,” he says. “Me.” 

Sherlock turns the newspaper down. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. 

John looks up. 

“I can’t remember the last real conversation we had,” he says. “Or the last time we spent a day together, or – or slept together—” 

“Last night,” Sherlock says. 

John sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

Sherlock sets down the newspaper and watches him. John rubs at his eyes. 

“Domestic bliss,” John says. “I guess that’s not really our style, is it?” 

“What were you expecting?” Sherlock asks. 

John laughs sadly. “I have no idea.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

One morning, Sherlock has his bag packed by the time John gets up.

John frowns. “What’s going on?” 

“It’s nothing to worry about. Project,” Sherlock says with a smile. “I won’t have reception.” 

“Wait, Sherlock—” 

“I’ll be back on Monday,” Sherlock swoops down to kiss him. Then he’s out the door.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

This is it, John thinks.

Sherlock is going to come home, and he’s going to announce – what? He can’t do this anymore. He’s found someone else. He’s found something that doesn’t include John, something that works better for him, makes him happier. Something that keeps him on his toes, because John has a hard time keeping up at crime scenes now-a-days, and Sherlock spends more time alone in his lab than he does at home with John. 

John rubs his thumb against the ring Sherlock gave him. The engraving scratches against his skin.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

“Maybe you need to spice things up a bit,” Mike suggests Saturday night, just as the waitress sets down a basket of fish and chips. Mike thanks her and digs in. John turns his glass of beer on his coaster, watching the moisture drip down the glass.

“How, exactly, does one _spice things up_ with Sherlock Holmes?” John asks. 

Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. Go grave-digging? Build a meth lab?” 

John snorts out a laugh. 

“Marriage isn’t easy, John,” Mike tells him. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been married for thirty-five years, and sadly, I’m still not an expert. I just know that if Sherlock were truly unhappy, he wouldn’t stay.” 

John swallows. “Yeah.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

Sherlock comes home Monday afternoon, looking tired but awfully pleased with himself.

He tosses John’s bag at him when John enters the bedroom. 

“Pack,” he says. “Three days.” 

John drops his bag onto the bed. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?” 

Sherlock beams at him. “It’s a surprise. Pack.”

▪ ▪ ▪ 

They take a train up to Sussex, and Sherlock rents a car. John rests his head against the window and watches the scenery drift past. He doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going, or what’s going on; Sherlock won’t reply anyway.

Eventually they pull up to a small stone cottage, with a vine-covered stone wall and a black gate, and trees dotting the grass here and there. Sherlock turns off the car and turns to John, smiling. 

“What do you think?” he asks. 

John blinks. “Um. About what?” 

Sherlock gestures to the cottage. 

“It’s nice,” John nods. “What is it?” 

“Ours,” Sherlock says. 

John looks at him. “Come again?” 

“This is the project I’ve been working on,” Sherlock explains. “Three bedrooms – one for us, two offices – two baths, a den, screened-in porch on the back that looks out into the garden. No press, no nosey neighbours, no Mrs Hudson to tell us to keep it down.” 

John swallows. “You… bought a house.” 

“Yes.” 

“For us.” 

“Yes.” 

“You didn’t think to mention this?” John asks. 

Sherlock shifts in his seat. “It – it was meant to be a surprise.” 

John looks back to the house. “Well, I’m… definitely surprised.” 

Sherlock opens the car door and steps out. John follows, his legs feeling wobbly. The cottage is nice, quiet and private. Sherlock opens the front door and steps inside, and John follows. It’s bright and airy, cozy and comfortable. There’s already a couple of pieces of furniture in the living room and kitchen. 

“I’ve been antiquing,” Sherlock says. 

“I can see that,” John says. 

“We still need a bed,” Sherlock explains. “I’ve had my eye on some chairs and a sofa. Your office is for you to decorate, of course. There’s a shed out back I was going to use for a lab, if that’s all right with you.” 

“You’re serious?” John asks. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I don’t know,” John says. “I just – this whole time, I thought you were gearing up to break everything off.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Why would I do that?” 

“You’ve been rather distant,” John says. 

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock says. 

“Shopping.” 

“Yes.” 

John starts to laugh.

▪ ▪ ▪ 

They buy Chinese food from a town nearby and bring it home. They eat out of cardboard containers in the backyard and watch the sun set behind the tall brick fence. There’s no hum of the city, no honking horns or people talking loudly. Just crickets in the grass, a bird singing nearby, and the wind in the trees.

“For future reference,” John says a while later, once they’ve packed away their food containers and headed inside. “Next time, just tell me what you’re doing so I won’t worry so much, yeah?” 

“That would have ruined the surprise,” Sherlock says. 

“I can act surprised,” John says. 

“No.” Sherlock says, then grins. “You’re awful at acting.” 

John rolls his eyes. 

“You didn’t seriously think I was getting bored of you,” Sherlock says. “Did you?” 

“I wasn’t sure,” John says. “Marriage never seemed like your thing.” 

“I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if it wasn’t ‘my thing’,” Sherlock says. 

“Yeah,” John says. “I – I know. Really. Or I should have.” 

Sherlock smiles. “How can I make it up to you?” 

“You bought us a bloody house, Sherlock,” John laughs. “I think that’s enough.” 

Sherlock hums. “Are you sure? You haven’t even seen the bedroom yet.” 

“I thought you said there was no bed,” John says. 

Sherlock grins. “And when has that ever stopped stopped us?”

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be the last fic I post on this account. It's been fun. Thank you, everyone. <3


End file.
